So when I go back to the flat, there will be nothing inside it to greet me. I’ll bet he searched, anyway: Simon—I was foggy by the time he reached me, but I’m sure he laid into the place, gave it the third degree in my relative absence.
I sit up, which goes quite well, and I appear to be fine, although possibly my crying persists. I’m in a pyjama jacket, not my own. It’s big enough to almost be a nightshirt on me, so it must be Simon’s—his pyjama jacket. Other than this, I am naked. Did he undress me? Did his wife? Did I?
Of course, my clothes and shoes have been hidden somewhere else, to stop me leaving. Which is very, very predictable. They always do this: your mother, your father, your brother, your worried partner: whoever it is doesn’t matter, in the end they’ll all develop the same symptoms. They will talk about you in the third person while you are there, as if you were an idiot, or a dog. They will eliminate your booze, as if you have no discipline. They will put you somewhere clean and unfamiliar, as if you have been living in a cave. They will take away your clothes and your belongings, as if you were a criminal, and they will lock you in. As if you were a werewolf, a monster, they will lock you in.
Oh, but it’s not so awful. After the first time it happens, you realise— they can’t keep it up forever, they have other concerns, they lose patience. Not one of them can wish you to be different as long and as hard as you can wish to stay the same. And, in the meantime, you can even see their point, reach common ground—they want you to get healthy, you agree: they think you need to rest now, you agree: they believe that in a few weeks everything will seem more clear and you agree most heartily.
Anyway, it’ll be nice to stay with Simon. The awkwardness will go: it must do, we’re brother and sister. We’ll find each other again and be comfy and we’ll talk. I could do with a nice, long talk. Not about anything serious, I don’t want to be serious, only to chat. For instance, I’d like to ask him about the man who used to stand down at the corner of our street. On the way back from school, we’d walk past him, or later in the evening when it was summer, he’d be leaning there: an old guy with a pipe, his back propped against a high garden wall and his face to the sun.
I mentioned him to Mother one afternoon. “Why does he smoke his pipe outside?”
“Maybe his wife doesn’t like it in the house.”
“But he isn’t there very often.”
“Oh, you mean Mr. Russell.”
“I don’t know.” I’d never thought that he might have a name. “Maybe.”
“He isn’t there to smoke his pipe.”
“But that’s what he does.” It was difficult to imagine he might be smoking against his will. “Doesn’t he like it?”
“He smokes the pipe so he’ll look occupied. What he’s really doing is looking at the sun and being happy. He’s just being happy. For no reason.” She smoothed at the side of her face and I had the odd impression she was thinking of my father and becoming slightly sad, sad in a way that she quite liked.
“But he isn’t smiling.”
“He doesn’t need to. Go up and get changed—your dinner will be ready soon.” And she slipped past me and out across the garden, knocked on the side of my father’s greenhouse and was allowed in. I couldn’t see what they did then, because of the condensation and the spread of leaves.
And I wasn’t concerned with them, in any case: I was held by the idea that adults might settle themselves behind a habit, some mild camouflage, and then simply be happy, privately and without cause. Gold panners and teachers and circus clowns and archaeologists—all of the people whose professions had caught my eye up to that point—maybe they were only pretending, passing the time with their work, then drifting away to be happy where no one could see. I wanted to grow older into that. I thought such things were possible.
Even more so, when I next passed Mr. Russell and—as a sly experiment—grinned at him while he smoked. He peered down at me in surprise, but then developed the most luminous, unblemished, sincere smile I’ve ever seen. I could wonder today if Russell was a drinker, but I don’t believe so—his expression had no edge, no meaning, no request, it anticipated no result: it was simply a release of monumental joy. After proof like that, I had to assume the passing years would haul me up and out to happiness, no doubt about it. Otherwise, why bother?
Otherwise, why bother?
There are people who can make that question helpful, kind—my father, for example. Mother had been right to think of him, go to him in his greenhouse, where he practised concealing his life, because he did bother, he bothered a lot. Busy doing nothing under glass, dabbling in the kitchen, dusting and cleaning each new day while she was at work as if this was a game he’d never played before, something amusingly quixotic and arcane. He had decided this would be the best disguise to guard his happiness. For all I could tell, it may even have worked.
And it wasn’t that he lacked other options, qualifications—this was definitely a choice: to be a tea-boiler, house-husband, homemaker and not anything else more manly, or lucrative.
“He was a lawyer. That’s how we met.”
We only had this conversation once, my mother and I. It occupied space in a part of the last ceasefire before I left home—nineteen and with very few qualifications of any kind.
“He was a lawyer?”
“Don’t sound so surprised—he could be anything he wanted.” She said this as if it were nothing remarkable, a fact with hourly confirmations. “He picked law. Got a scholarship, two scholarships. He didn’t have a background that made it easy.” Leaning closer, letting me ponder the nourishing background that I’d wasted, she looked at me, at the changeling I’d become. “You didn’t ever notice, did you? How clever he is.”
“I . . .” It was true, I hadn’t noticed. But who does think their parents are clever, or attractive, or own any of the qualities of strangers? Your parents aren’t people to you until they’re dead, or at least until it’s too late and the harm’s been done—that’s something everyone understands. “I didn’t think he was stupid . . . I just didn’t—”
“I know.”
“But I don’t remember—”
“Criminal law. He was very talented, everyone said so. It just didn’t suit him. It didn’t suit his heart. Afterwards, there was compensation. A pension. We’d never manage with only my wage. Didn’t think of that, either, did you? He still supports us.”
I couldn’t tell from the way she said this if the compensation was the pension, or if something had happened to my father, if the law had hurt him and then had to make amends.
“You shouldn’t upset him. No one should upset him. No one should be able to.” She angled for a clear view into my eyes while she said this and so I lowered my head—a proper look at me would only have upset her. And probably this was the time when I decided that I should get out of her way and everyone else’s. I can’t be certain, but I’d say it seemed much more necessary to leave home after that.
And then Simon must have left, I don’t know when, exactly, and here I am in the place that he’s made for himself without our parents and without me.
I lie back into one of his soft pillows. I suppose it’s Gillian’s pillow, too. And these are their fresh sheets and well-aired duvet with matching little blue-and-white stripes, in keeping with the smoothness and the cleanliness of the room—scrubbed pine and dove-coloured walls. They’ve taken time with this, made it inviting for a guest. No doubt, they have another bedroom they’re getting ready for the baby: mobiles and tentative colours and a start on buying toys. Preparation and attention to detail, that’s what you need to break a house into a home. I’m aware of the theory. The thought of this being what finally makes me sleep—with home in my head I can’t bear to be awake.
Although I do snap up again, I’d presume about five minutes later, dying for a cigarette. This is unusual, because I don’t particularly smoke. If somebody gives me one, I’ll take it, I won’t say no, because that’s antisocial, but I’m not what I wo
uld call a smoker. There are too many other, better things a person can do with their mouth.
But here I am, wanting a fag in a household where even pronouncing tobacco would probably trigger a silent alarm and summon up the drugs squad. And I dreamed for a moment about being younger and not having a night light—is that what kicked off the craving, a bad pun?—or was it memories of Russell’s happy pipe?—for whatever reason, I’m unsettled, because in reality, I didn’t have a night light and this was unjust, this was wrong.
My mother, usually my mother, because she was brave, would pad through in the small hours if I was scared, or restless, and she would talk to me and calm me and then she would say, “Don’t worry. I’ll just leave the door a bit open as I go. Night-night.”
Which is supposed to be reassuring, but actually it’s horrendous, it’s a small kind of child abuse. If the door is left open, then bad things can come in and get you. Being shut in a pitch-black room with something dreadful isn’t nice, but if the dreadful thing stays quiet and doesn’t kill you, then you can get used to it being there and possibly doze off. With an open door, the number of terrors is unlimited. Not only that, but you realise that you will see them when they come: glimpse them as they’re sneaking, feel their shadows on your forehead, catch the flicker of their eyes before they leap. Because the door is open, you will lie awake all night, too terrified to even call your parents for their help. They will think you are quiet, because you are sleeping. In fact, you are dumbstruck and fear for your life.
Not relevant to me at this age. Except that the bedroom door is partly open, light from the hallway spilling wickedly in and the house restless in a breeze, swarming with tiny noises that I can’t identify. Laughable to be nervy this way. I almost can’t imagine why I should be.
The alarm clock with the extremely red numbers is stabbing out 1:52, which is later than I expected and rather awkward—hours to wait before I can pop through and ask Simon when I stopped being scared of the dark.
“Hello. Hello?”
“Fffm . . . A-ah?”
“Is that you? Robert?”
“I don’t know, what time is it?” His voice childish with sleep, but otherwise comforting and clear.
“Why, are there times of day when you’re somebody else?”
“Yes. You’re very quiet, what’s the matter? And where are you? Are you in your flat?” Robert choosing to stay childish as he wakes, picking the tone that will make me soft. As if I wouldn’t be, anyway. “I tried your flat and I thought you weren’t there. Were you hiding? Just because . . . You left me in Dublin by myself. What did you do that for?”
It’s so pleasant to hear him that I’m not really listening—the dark hall around me turning cold, but the nastiness of the thicker shadows now receding. I pull the duvet I’ve carted downstairs with me more effectively round my shoulders and crouch on the floor, back to the wall.
“Well? Now what?” No more of the boy left in him, so he’s turning defensive. “You’ve woken me up to not speak to me? Hannah, I didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Yes, but I’ve played this game in another life, many other lives—you don’t have to say, I’m supposed to guess. And then I get it wrong and by the time we’ve finished fighting we can’t remember what was right and, in any case, we don’t give a fuck.”
For some reason it never seems likely that Robert has dated other women, that he could have played games with them and disliked it. I mean, he would have been—still is—attractive and has all kinds of additional, positive things about him and women must have noticed this at times and made their moves, but neither of us have spoken about former partners and so they have remained semi-mythical. Which is what I prefer.
“Hannah? Don’t do this. Or I’ll have to hang up. And I don’t want to. Where are you?”
I remember to speak. “I’m at my brother’s. That’s why I’m whispering. That’s what I called to say.”
“Why whispering? . . . You have a brother?”
“Yes. Don’t you?” We don’t really speak about anyone else when we’re with ourselves—relatives included.
“No. I’m an only child.” His irritation sliding. “Why are you at your brother’s? Have you left me? I mean . . .” Until this last emerges in a panicked mumble.
“I can’t leave you. I don’t live with you.” Trying to joke him out of it.
But it doesn’t work. “Did you want to? Should I have—”
“Robert, will you hush.”
“Well, tell me what it is then? What’s wrong?”
And, God forgive me, I am very glad that he’s upset, because he has no reason, so there’s no risk, I can simply enjoy his concern. “It’s that I’m ill, that’s all. Not well.” Before I sort out our misunderstanding thoroughly, easily. “Remember my head?” This is not a disaster in any sense. “How it was?” I don’t want him sad, but it’s lovely to know that he can be on my account. “The swelling?”
“Yes, of course . . . You were huge . . . Greenish-looking. I was going to say you should see a doctor, but it was just quite funny at first. I mean, I was shocked as well. But it was funny.”
“I’m sure. It’s getting better now—thanks for asking.”
“I was going to ask.” The panic flagging higher again.
So I return to being soft and what I hope is maternal. “But my doctor’s no use and my brother . . . he’s good, I’m proud of him being good— only he can’t treat me, because he’s my brother, but he got someone else to and then some antibiotics and . . . I’m not fantastically healthy, but I’m a more reasonable shape.” I’m guessing this, because I haven’t seen a mirror in a while, but it seems plausible.
“Your brother’s a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” He’s starting to sound gloomy, perhaps slightly sour.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh . . . I just had . . . you weren’t around and I didn’t know where you’d gone and—it’s been a week since I’ve seen you, you know.” I hear him wandering about while he says this, a flutter and chink of background noise and a sigh as he sits. I would like to be seeing him sit. He sleeps naked, gets out of bed naked, sees few subsequent reasons to cover up.
“Really?”
“Practically a week, four days since I flew back and then apologies and loathing at the surgery again and this woman turns up—new patient, just moved from some overpriced London practice with piped music and miniature cameras so you can watch your own teeth—once the cable’s reamed its way up from your arse—and then you get handjobs to take your mind off the first anaesthetic they give you to ease off the possible pain of the second fucking anaesthetic, I mean—”
I know that I have to stop him when he sets off on dental rants—they depress him and he ends up collapsing into sighs and swearing and then I’m completely unsure if he’s finished his story or not, which means my reactions are too early or too late and this spins his depression down and out to blight everything, because my uncertain responses indicate the way that no one can truly identify with dentists. “You’ve lost me, love. Was there something bad about the woman?”
“The woman . . . ? Yes. She had a poncey, bloody filling in an incisor, a front tooth. ‘Oh, you might not be able to find it, it was so perfectly coloured to match.’ Yes, I’m only the window cleaner—I can’t tell a filling from a tooth . . . I’m just here by mistake until somebody qualified turns up.” His growl fades into a breath large enough to sustain at least the opening of one more tirade and so I nip swiftly in.
“But the woman . . . ?”
“Oh, the filling was loose, because it was crap—only six months old and it’s swinging like . . . like the sign outside a fucking coaching inn, it’s creaking when she breathes . . . So I removed it and put in another. Only there wasn’t much tooth left—big filling; tiny, lateral incisor—and I was wondering about you and what you were doing and my hands were a bit uneven, distracted�
��first thing in the morning, what can you expect . . .”
His breath is magnified by what I can tell is a glass. He swallows and I swallow, too. Of course. My throat narrows, dries with lack. “What are you drinking?”
“Mm?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Mother’s ruin. If you were here it could ruin you, too . . .” The growl sinking to a purr.
“I’d like that.” The oily, cheap-perfume sting of his gin is almost with me, I can smell it in the meat of my mind, hot. “I’d like that a lot.” And gin would be the way his mouth tastes, the memory of juniper under his tongue and the spirit’s brightness, its good hurt.
“I know you would.” He swallows again. “I’d like it, too.”
“Jesus, though, Robert. Don’t do that now—not when I’m . . . What happened with the woman?”
Of course, I don’t remotely care about her and, of course, he takes another sip before beginning and, of course, I’m aware of precisely the pace it will gather as it kisses down his throat and between his shoulders, as it slips beside his heart. “Her?” He exhales in a way that shivers my neck. “I filled the tooth and sent her packing, but she came back, didn’t she? This morning. Her tooth didn’t seem right, she said. Very whiny about it. But I had a look and . . . I’d drilled too deep. Anyone could have done the same, there wasn’t much margin for error—should have told her she needed a crown in the first place, but I was trying to save her the cost and the inconvenience. I was doing my best for the poisonous cow. But I’d gone too deep, exposed the nerve and so it had got . . . it was in a bad way and she’s in the chair—you remember my chair—she’s in my chair— which I also remember, distractingly—and she’s scared and I have to clean the whole tooth out, remove the nerve, do a root canal and she’s jumpy and—okay, it isn’t delightful as a procedure, but that’s no reason for her to get operatic. And I’ll have to see her again, at least once, more root-canal stuff . . . and she’s already bleating about the bill and saying it’s all because of me and she doesn’t have the time . . . I should have just smiled and sent her away, I should have pretended the thing was just dandy and let her enjoy the abscess at her leisure. See how she’d thrive with a face full of pus.” An aggrieved swallow here. “The point is—I hate removing nerves. I hate the thought of removing nerves. They don’t regrow: that’s it, once you’ve finished—they’re gone. That’s practically part of the brain you’ve dragged out. I mean, you’ve touched something nobody should touch. The patients, they get shaky—partly it’s the adrenalin we have in the anaesthetic, makes their reflexes assume they should be scared. But mainly? I know what it is—the body has lost something and understands that it will never be replaced. That’s a little piece of death right there, and I’ve had to touch it, bring it in . . . Hang on . . . more gin.” The sound of movement again, a plodding walk.
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